


Where My Demons Hide

by AlaskaMarina



Series: Darkly Dreaming Dean [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Dexter, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, FBI Agent Castiel, Human Castiel, Limited Supernatural Elements, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Profound Bond, Serial Killer Dean, Sexual Tension, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:24:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlaskaMarina/pseuds/AlaskaMarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Dean doubts he is capable of feeling anything resembling love toward another person anymore; He can potently, piercingly feel the scarred, scabbed over gash in his heart where that piece used to breathe life into his existence. But it's gone now. Replaced by hatred and anger, pumping the thirst for revenge through his veins like poison, driving him forward, keeping him moving despite all his broken parts."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the land of Destiel... this story's been building in my head for a while and I'm excited to start getting it out in the world. This is the first installment in what (I hope) will be a growing series tracking the characters at different points. Chronologically, this falls nearer to the end. I hope you enjoy!

It is estimated that there are anywhere between 35 and 50 active serial killers operating in the U.S. any given year. For the past twenty years, on average, law enforcement has only managed to identify and capture about ten percent. Of those caught, about half are within their first year of killing.

Think about that.

Only 5 of the 50 active serial murderers are discovered and apprehended each year. What about the other 45? What about the ones who aren't actively killing that year? And the ones they're catching are inexperienced, reckless and, frankly, stupid.

So what does that tell you about the ones that are still out there? Those who are skilled and mindful. Who've got it all figured out. Those drug-resistant bacteria, who've survived our weeding out the weak, growing stronger, getting bolder.

Keeping quiet, keeping careful. Keeping patient.

Patience, above all things.

* * *

Dean has always been fascinated with fire.

In some ways he finds it soothing. Everything about the flame itself feels pure. The raw power, the insatiable hunger, the indiscriminate destruction; everything burns in the end. Everything is the same.

He closes his eyes and lets the heat wash over him, listens to the crackle of burning leaves as the soft wind sweeps them unwittingly to their deaths. He should have brought marshmallows.

Really, though, he knows he should hate the fire. He knows the image of it should keep him up at night. The stench of the smoke should send him running. The slick cracking of roasting flesh should make him double him over.

And sometimes it does. Sometimes, he wakes up screaming, scrambling away from imaginary tongues of flame, choking on phantom smoke, feeling like his heart is about to explode.  

But he can't hate it. He needs it. Still can't escape it after all these years.

And really, where is the good in running from it? When surrendering gives him such pleasure?

Dean stares down at his good work and smiles with a grim satisfaction. The man in the hole is, _was,_  a monster by any definition, a real life vampire if ever a creature existed, and Dean had taken a special pleasure in slicing the sicko's head off. The memory sends a thrill through his body. Decapitation is a new one for him. He's found he rather likes it. Dean can just imagine the public's horror upon the cops stumbling across this particular corpse.

At least they _would_ be horrified if they ever found the bastard. Which they won't. Not for a long time.

Dean kicks some dirt into the open grave as he ponders the questionable wisdom of his actions over the past few days. Choosing to kill Mr. Toasty in there had been a considerable risk on his part. He was much higher profile than Dean's usual vicks; a wealthy executive who had to taken to mutilating and _eating_ call-girls in his spare time. Dean knew the creepo's disappearance would attract a lot of attention. But after seeing the faces of the orphaned kids one of the girls had left behind... Dean just couldn't help himself. The dog had to be put down.

He has a soft spot for kids, he knows, he just prays it won't be enough to end him.

Filling in the grave takes time. It's a long and arduous process that tries even Dean's considerable patience. Even after years of perfecting his craft, this part always makes him nervous.

He's always careful. Scrupulously scouting his location, working in the dead of night. But still, there's always the chance that some late night mourner or watchman might stumble upon his activities. Once, a group of teenagers snuck into the cemetery he'd been working in on a dare. Dean was forced to abandon his grave mid-dig and he barely made it out without being seen.

The body was discovered the next day, prompting authorities in nearby counties to exhume numerous other fresh graves following suspicious sightings in the later months, and earning Dean the affectionate moniker, _The Grim Reaper_. He despises the notoriety, but it couldn't be helped. Avoiding capture is Dean's number one concern. But not at the expense of children. Never kids.

Nowadays, he is even more cautious, going even further out of his way, choosing a low-smoke, fast burning accelerant, targeting only low-profile vicks. All good things, but he can only dig so fast.

And apparently he can only control himself to an extent when choosing victims. He'll have to lay low for a while after this one.  

Maybe pick up a day job.

"Hope you don't mind your new bunkmate, buddy," Dean says to headstone of the poor sucker who'd been interred that morning as he finishes up, "Thought you could use the company."

* * *

**SucroCorp CEO Still Missing**

The headline is all over the news. Frankly, Castiel is tired of looking at it. Honestly, with all the war and disease out there in the world, one imagines people would have better things to worry about than some rich snack food magnate off on a million dollar bender in the Caribbean. But no. People are suckers for a scandal.

 _And far be it from us to deny them one_ , Cas muses bitterly.

Regretfully, Castiel does not have the luxury of deciding what he should and shouldn't spend his time worrying about. His press-conscious bosses made the Dick Roman case a priority and so here he sits, staring at file after file of Dick's bank statements and personal calendars. The excess alone makes him nauseous. What kind of man drops three million on a diamond-studded, bullet-proof suit?

But as he pours through the pages, something even more disturbing begins nudging at his brain. It seems Mr. Roman might not be as squeaky clean as some would like to believe. He gets a sinking feeling this case is going to drag itself out even longer than it was already threatening.

Small discrepancies keep popping up beneath his careful gaze. Not immediately noticeable, but after days of staring at Roman's life broken down and spread out across painfully white xerox sheets and cheap off-black toner, they are enough to set off that annoying tingling in the back his skull; Bank transfers to nowhere, large chunks of time missing from an otherwise meticulously scheduled routine, phone calls to people who don't seem to exist. The CEO is hiding something. But what? And why? How is it related to his disappearance? Is it related at all?

Cas's vision starts to blur. He shoves the papers away and rubs his eyes.

"Sleeping on the job, Castiel?"

Cas sits up to see a pretty young woman by his desk holding two coffees. 

"Agents don't sleep," He answers dryly.

She hands him a cup. It's the good stuff from the shop down the street.

"Real cream? Who died?" Cas jokes, taking the drink. But instead of the shy smile he expects, his partner only looks at him grimly. Cas's smile falls away.

"Who died?"

Hannah chews her lip and Cas watches her face carefully.

"Nobody," she says eventually, "that we know of. Yet. But..."

"But what?"

Hannah sighs. She looks around the office nervously but everyone has their noses buried in their own work. Cas follows her eyes up toward the Director's office. Through the glass doors he can see her talking to several men in suits. Presumably agents, but he's never seen them around the office before.

"They're not going to tell you," Hannah says eventually, leaning in, "But you're going to find out anyway. I don't know how, but you always do." Cas chooses to ignore the wary look she sends his way. "I just figured, it'd be better if you heard it from me first."

"Heard what?" Cas presses, lowering his voice to match hers. She hesitates. " _Hannah_."

"They found a car last night. Parked just a few minutes past the zoning time and some meter maid happened to pass by and ticket it. Dumb luck, really." She tries to smile but doesn't quite manage it. Cas doesn't like it, he can feel the nervous tingles start buzzing under his skin.

"So?"

"As soon as he registered the ticket, red flags popped up all over the place. Boss, it's... it's his."

Cas suddenly feels his throat go dry.

"Whose?" He croaks, even though he already knows; the tingling in his skull is going crazy. Hannah puts a hand on his arm but he barely feels it.

"It's the Impala, Cas," she whispers, "He's here."

* * *

Dean Winchester has precious few things left in this world to care about. Over the years he's lost almost everyone he considers family. His remaining friends are few and not exactly the type of people you meet up with for Christmas dinner. He has no home, no love life, nothing to fight for except his memories.

By the time his brief childhood had finished chewing him up and spitting him out he was left with only two things to call his own; his work and his car.

It was his father's car. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala bequeathed to him after his father's disappearance... the first time. His Baby is his pride and joy and the only real connection he has left to his fractured little family. He loves that car. He really does.

Dean doubts he is capable of feeling anything resembling love toward another person anymore; He can potently, piercingly feel the scarred, scabbed over gash in his heart where that piece used to breathe life into his existence. But it's gone now. Replaced by hatred and anger, pumping the thirst for revenge through his veins like poison, driving him forward, keeping him moving despite all his broken parts.

But he loves that car.

He learned long ago that sentimentality is weakness. Caring for something or someone just gives your enemies a sore spot to exploit. He knows that but he can't help loving Baby anyway. So it really should have come as no surprise that she would be the beginning of the end for him.

Dean sits in a greasy little hole, chowing down on what is definitely _not_ going to make his list of top-ten burgers in America. The place smells like gasoline, there's a drunk who keeps playing the same shitty ballad over and over on the juke box, and there's a junkie couple in the corner screaming at each other in pitches only dogs can make out.

But he enjoys it all the same. Something about these tiny, vulgar dives and crappy food feels like home to him. How screwed up is that?

Dean closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, soaking it all in.

Times like now, after a clean kill is completed, the body burned and buried,  Dean experiences a wonderful feeling of bliss. All the demons shouting in his head go quiet for a time and the weight of tragedy seems to lift from his shoulders-- not all the way, but just enough that he feels like he can really _breathe_.

The period doesn't last long, and within weeks he'll be out, jonesing for another fix. But for now... he's almost _happy_.

These moments are what he lives for.

But like a snake shucking off its rotten old skin, they leave him vulnerable.

After a few drinks and a groping session with the waitress in a nasty bathroom stall, Dean stumbles out of the bar and heads through the back alleys toward his car, still chugging the remains of his last beer, humming the lyrics to that damned Johnny Cash song.

He is so relaxed, he feels so _good_ and numbed out that he almost walks right into it.

Luckily, his brain never completely checks out on him. The pain is always there, nagging at him, and so is his paranoia.

Sirens and police lights are nothing special in the city, but something about the way the lights bounce off the brick ahead of him, the way the sounds echo, the low rumble of voices, makes him pause. And listen.

Between the barking dogs and shouting from across the way, Dean picks out snippets of hushed conversation from just ahead.

"... _not that stupid."_

_"...fine line between "stupid" and "confident" with these guys. Looks like Winchester finally crossed it."_

_"Damn. Can you imagine? After all that, we catch him on a parking ticket?"_

Well, shit.

Dean presses himself flat against the brick wall and focuses on controlling his breathing.

_A parking ticket?_

Sloppy. Very sloppy. He can't afford mistakes like this. His father would be so disappointed.

He swallows hard and forces his foggy brain to process.

His day-job idea is scrapped. His picture will be broadcast all over the networks by morning. It won't be the first time, but the general populace have startlingly short memories when it comes to stuff like this. Everyone always thinks it can't happen to them. In the case of The Grim Reaper, for most of them, that's probably true. Good, law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear from him or his lighter. But they don't know that. The hunt will be on. He has to get out of the city, fast.

But not tonight.

Not alone.

He can't.

He opens his eyes and peers, oh so carefully, around the corner, just catching a glimpse of the beautiful black chevy as she's taken hostage by the enemy. 

"I'll be back for you, Baby, " He whispers, disappearing into the night, "I promise."

* * *

Special Agent Castiel Novak is not a rebel. He doesn't understand the need to break rules or struggle against authority. He's always valued instruction, knowing without a doubt his role in life and what is expected of him.

It's probably why federal law enforcement is such a natural fit for him. Why he was recruited at such a young age. He can't imagine the terrifying emptiness of going off on his own, without a plan. Criminals baffle him in that regard.

But it's never been a hinderance to his work. In fact he believes it's part of what makes him such an effective soldier.

He has questions, of course, doubts and independent thoughts. Agent Novak is no hammer. But he has faith.

Faith in the system. Faith that those in power got there for a reason and that, by virtue of their status, they have a privileged vantage point of any situation: They can see the whole chess board, while he is just one small piece. Following their lead makes sense.

That's what he's always told himself, anyway. It what he wants to believe.  And it wasn't until his first, no, _second_ run-in with the criminal Dean Winchester that he really began to wonder whether his faith might be misplaced. A ground-shaking proposition for someone like Castiel.

That kid had screwed with his brain in ways he doesn’t want to even try to sort though. And yet...

"You have to let me take this case."

"No."

"You know I'd be invaluable."

"No."

Anna won't even look at him as she shuffles through the papers on her desk, ignoring the calls on hold that are blinking wildly. She's a little frenzied and Cas can't blame her. Between the usual caseload and the pressure from the Dick Roman disappearance, and now Dean Winchester on top of it all, Anna has her hands full coordinating task forces and dealing with PR. Cas knows he must be pushing his luck with the director, but he stands his ground. He needs this.

"Please, just. Give me access. No one knows this case better than I do."

Anna picks up and slams down a receiver to stop the ringing. She glares at him, exasperated. "Of course not. That is exactly the point."

Cas tilts his head, confused.

"You're too close to this, Cas. You're crazy if think I'm letting you anywhere near this case after what happened last time."

Cas bites his lip, "Respectfully, Director, I think you're overstating things."

Anna runs a tired hand down her face. "Damnit, Castiel, I swear to God."

A clerk sticks his head through the door holding a fax, "Director?"

"Not now!" Anna barks. The frightened man scurries away.

Cas just stares at her. She groans. "Close the door."

He does.

"Sit."

He sits.

She looks at him for a long, hard moment.

"What is this, Cas," she asks eventually, "really? I'm asking as a friend. Why this case?"

Cas can hear the honest concern in her voice.  

"You know why."

Anna glances over his shoulder through the glass, her glare warding off any curious eyes.

"All the more reason you should stay away."

"Please. This is the first time Dean's popped up on our radar in two years. We can't risk him slipping away again."

"We have people on it, Agent Novak. Good people." He starts to speak but she cuts him off, " _Objective_ people."

"You don't trust me?"

Anna purses her lips. "You know that's not it."

"Please. Anna. I need to finish this."

Anna pauses for a long moment, searching his face, her expression inscrutable. Finally, she leans back and shakes her head, "I'm sorry," she says tiredly, "But it's out of our hands. The higher-ups have assigned two of their own to the Winchester case. And I happen to agree with their choice." Castiel feels his chance slip through his fingers, like a dog ripping its leash from his grasp."You're out."

He shakes his head.

In a rare moment of tenderness, Anna reaches out and touches his hand.

"Let it go, Castiel," she says softly, "It'll all be over soon, I promise you. We're going to catch this bastard."

Cas leaves her office with her words ringing in his ears, but he fears, and the prickling beneath his skin confirms it, the adventures of Dean Winchester are far from over. And letting go may yet prove to be a feat beyond his will.

* * *

Four days.

Four long, boring, almost-sober days.

Days spent locked up in a skeezy motel room, running up the charges on his stolen credit card on the minibar and porn. Enjoying the fuck out of the vibrating bed. Stealing wary peaks between the dusty curtains. All with a gun on his nightstand, a knife under his pillow, and a police scanner hissing in the corner.

Those were his days.

His nights were another story.

Dean's spent the past three nights hounding the Chicago streets tracking down his car-- he may or may not have had to break a few fingers to get his information-- and staking out the impound lot where they were holding her. Now, he perches on top of low building near the enclosure and waits.

There's a chill in the air and the full moon's warped reflection stares back at him in pieces from spider-webbed windshields and busted mirrors. This is the place wayward cars go to die.

A wiser man, a more practical man, might have made the smart move and farmed this job out; had someone else steal the car. But Dean will be damned before he lets a stranger drive his Baby. He doesn't even use those automated car washes.

When the time is right, he scurries down the fire escape and cuts through the padlock without a problem. He doesn't bother hiding his face; the time for worrying about cameras is long past.

He starts silently slipping towards the Impala, weaving in and out of the orphaned vehicles. He can't help but notice there are some really nice machines in here. It's such a waste. He makes a mental note; after this Dick Roman thing blows over he oughta do a little shopping in a place like this. Having a couple back-up cars might not be such a bad idea.

He's nearly there when he hears the growling.

Dean jumps in spite of himself. His body stiffens and he slowly pivots in the direction of the sound.

Two of them. Asleep in a pile. Black masses of mangy fur and claws, heaving slowly as they breathe. One of the animals growls again, in its sleep, revealing a row of sharp, pearly teeth.

Dean gulps.

He hates dogs. He always has. All he sees are four-legged, sharp-toothed demons with fur. They shed and slobber on everything. And they follow you. Like, everywhere.  

If he's completely honest with himself, they make him uneasy. Anxious, even.

But he's not afraid of them. That'd be ridiculous. He just doesn't _like_ them. There is a difference.

Still, avoidance does seem the best plan in this case. Just to be safe.

Dean takes a deep breath and starts to inch past. He knew the damned things were there, he also waited until they fell asleep. But he still doesn't like it.

Why the fuck did they have to drag his Baby to someplace with dogs? Aren't they like the poor-man's security? What happened to those beautiful electronic alarms? With wires that can be cut and no jaws to snap around your ankle? Dean thinks those are much better.

Thankfully, he reaches his car safely and performs a quick check-up as best he can in the dark. Except for a few minor scratches, she seems unharmed. Lucky for the assholes who'd laid hands on her. Very lucky.

He jimmies the lock and grips the door handle. It feels smooth and cool beneath his fingers. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"Missed you," he whispers, running a hand across the frame. He's ready to go home.

He smiles and pulls open the door.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

* * *

Castiel is not supposed to be here. 

Technically, he shouldn't even know where it is that he's not supposed to be. Anna and the others had gone to surprising lengths to keep the location of this sting underwraps, but as his partner kindly reminded him, Cas has a way of sniffing these things out when he wants to. 

He wonders if this constitutes rebelling in some sense. Anna warned him to stay away from the Winchester case, but he isn't here in any official capacity. He is on his own time. And how Cas chooses to spend his free time-- whether it's drinking beer, or watching cartoons, or sitting in his parked car across the street from an impound lot at midnight-- is really none of the agency's business. Right?

Cas shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he watches a lone motorcycle rumble along the street ahead.

Maybe the director had a point earlier. He's hardly exhibiting the greatest judgement right now. He hasn't even seen the kid yet and already he's gone and got Cas acting out of character.

He should leave, shouldn't he?  Just go home and let the fine men and women of the Chicago PD handle this like they're meant to. 

Let Dean go. 

Hell, the kid probably won't even show tonight. He hasn't attempted to get at his vehicle all week and there's been no sightings of him since the car was impounded. Maybe Dean'll make the smart move and cut his losses. Maybe he's already fled town. 

But Cas seriously doubts it. Dean is smart, but also incredibly reckless. He wouldn't leave. Not without that car he loves so much.

Something tells Cas bailing now would be a mistake. 

He can sense it, the tingling sensation running amuck inside his brain. There's an excitement, an anticipation in the air; like the city is holding its breath, suspending all the night in a moment of crystallized silence, like a roller coaster peaking at the top of the hill, and any second now it'll all come crashing down.

And come hell or high water, Cas plans to be here when it does.  

It's another hour before a sudden movement catches his eye. A dark shadow shifts atop a low-standing building and drops to the ground. Cas sits up, at once at attention. 

As far as he can see from his limited vantage point, no one else has noticed. Or, if they have, they aren't doing anything about it. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. He's been sitting here staring at nothing for hours now, with more caffeine pumping through his system than is probably safe for a human. 

But no, there it is again, moving smoothly, stealthily behind the wire fence. The shape of a man.

Cas's breath catches in his chest. 

_Dean._

How long has it been? Seven years? Eight?

It feels like just yesterday he pulled that kid out of the literal and metaphorical fire. The same kid who'd then turned around and made it his life's mission to water the earth's hallowed ground with the devil's blood. 

The shadow keeps moving, slinking slowly toward the center of the lot, out of Castiel's field of vision. Cas feels an irrational flicker of panic but forces himself to stay put. The FBI and the local PD will have barriers set up all around the block. There's nowhere for Dean to go. 

But something's itching at the back of his brain, all the same. Nagging at him, sending shivers down his arms. This is all too easy. He can feel the sudden shift in the space around him, the moment of weightless apogee and then... 

 

A blaring alarm shatters the silence of the night.

Cas jumps and cranes his neck, searching for the source, but it's not alone. First one, then another, then another. Car alarms, fire warnings, flashing lights and screaming sirens. The entire street explodes in a cacophony of sound and light. 

Cas leaps from his car, hand flying to his gun, every sense on high alert. 

Nearly every car on the surrounding streets is flashing and honking and someone's triggered the fire alarms in the neighboring buildings. He can see his comrades lurching from their hiding places, shouting in confusion. Backup from down the block arrives, bringing with it even more noise and blinding flashes. And inside the lot, the guard dogs are going crazy in the chaos. 

But through it all, Cas hears something. A sound low and rumbling in sharp contrast with the high-pitched whines. Like a bass note, humming beneath the melody. He turns his head just in time to see the sleek motorbike pull up along the far side of the gated lot. 

He doesn't have time to second-guess himself before he's running. 

The streetlights are out, broken, behind the lot. Cas squints past the dark spots in his vision, trying to make out the shapes ahead of him. He rounds the corner and catches sight of a man leaping down from the fence, landing in a crouch beside the parked bike. 

Just behind the figures, two huge, black dogs are snarling and clawing viciously at the barbed fence now separating them from their prey. The cage rattles as one of them rears up on its hind legs and smashes into the wire mesh.

The man jumps on the back of the bike and the engine revs. 

Instinctively, Cas raises his weapon. 

"Freeze! FBI!"

In the glow of the bike's headlamp he sees them turn toward his voice. More importantly, he sees  _him_. 

Caught in the red and blue lights of the nearing police cars. Their eyes lock and Cas sees the recognition dawn across the man's features. Cas is frozen in place.

Suddenly Dean's face breaks out into a brilliant grin. And he  _winks_. 

Before Cas can react, the engine revs, Dean slips a black helmet over his head, and the motorcycle lunges forward, tearing out of the alley and nearly knocking the agent off his feet.

Cas stares after them, dumbstruck. Barely registering the puddle of filthy water he is now standing in or the fading wail of sirens as his co-workers speed after Dean and his accomplice, in what Cas knows will be a fruitless chase. 

Cas feels like he might be sick, memories old and new attacking his brain, numbing his body. 

What has he gotten himself into? 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

Cas makes it home at 3:24 only to be woken up at 5:15 by an anxious call from Hannah telling him what he already knows: Winchester was sighted breaking into the impound lot, but escaped with the help of an unknown accomplice. The agency has a team going over the scene with a fine tooth comb and Hannah 'just thought he should know.'

"You should be here, Boss," she confides, "You know this guy better than anyone."

_I thought so, too._

Cas rolls on his back and stares up at the ceiling. Eyes traveling along the tiny holes and cracks, barely visible in the dim morning light, trying to make sense of them. Trying to make sense of anything. He's not sure what he expected would happen last night, but he was a fool to think he was ready to see Dean again without stirring up all sorts of unsettling emotions. 

Castiel isn't used to being wrong. He's usually very good at picking up on the little hints others miss. Has a gift for making connections in his mind, leaps of logic that elude his peers and turn out to be correct a startling amount of the time. But not this time. This time he's missed something big. And it scares him.

Because now, it seems, he's gone and over-looked possibly the single most important detail in this entire mess: The last time he saw Dean Winchester was  _not_ the last time he saw Dean Winchester. 

It turns out they'd met once more. Betwixt his rocky encounter with fourteen-year old Dean eight years ago, and the impound lot last night, he had come face to face with the boy from the fire once again. He just didn't know it. 

Until now. 

He's itching to go back to that crime scene. To see it with his own eyes, tear it apart if he has to, dig until he finds anything all that will help silence the questions raging in his mind. Anything that could bring him face to face with Dean again.  

But he can't go back there.

He's already in hot water for being on the scene last night. And he knows there's no way to recount the story without raising some doubts-- although no one would dare say this out loud-- that, given their history, Cas might not have done everything in his power to stop Dean's escape. 

He has an appointment later that morning to give his statement about the 'incident' and he cringes to imagine the rumors floating around the office by then. He can't really begrudge his colleagues their suspicions. But it always stings.

And it's going to make it that much harder to properly explain what happened last year. What he's only just now put together himself...

 * * * 

_It's cold and it's wet. Not raining anymore, but the ghost of the passing storm still clings to atmosphere, nuzzling against his skin as he waits.The air is thick as he inhales, slipping out of his lips as a pale stream of fog, vanishing into the evening sky. The pavement beneath his feet is darker than the night above it, as if afflicted with a sickness. It's a sentiment to which he can relate._

_Cas is uncomfortable with waiting. He isn't used to it, doesn't like standing here, exposed, letting someone else-- an adversary-- make the first move. But he suppresses his irritation. He has a job to do._

_His fingers brush against the heavy roll of cash in his pocket. He feels a little sick, handing it over to someone like Alastair. But his sense of duty overpowers his nausea. The boss knows best._

_Suddenly a door swings open a few yards away. Two shadows slip out of the warehouse, the light from inside temporarily blinding him. Cas hears low voices murmuring to one another as the figures walk toward the low wire fence._

_They walk right past him, paying him no mind. But as his eyes follow their path he catches sight of another man a little ways down from him. Waiting, Cas suspects, just like he is for a chance to talk to Tiger Lily's number two._

_All sorts of people come and go from this spot: Dealers, runners, fences. But none ever looked so comfortably out of place as this kid._

_The man is so young, so ruggedly handsome, he looks like he should be taking cheerleaders to prom. Not lurking around these back alleys, making deals with drug lords._

_The kid leans nonchalantly against the warehouse gate, spinning an unlit cigarette idly between his fingers. He catches Cas staring and turns, flashing him a brilliant smile. Cas's breath hitches a little at the sight._

_The kid offers him a nod and holds out a pack, "You smoke?" He asks. His voice is strong and deep for someone his age._

_"Sure," says Cas, even though he doesn't. He moves closer and takes one of the little rolls from its box._

_He's left standing a little awkwardly, not sure what to do with it. The kid smiles and pulls out a worn-looking bronze lighter. He leans over and lights up Cas's cigarette before turning to his own. Their eyes meet briefly through the shivering flame and Cas feels a sort of surreal, almost-knowing flutter up inside of him. But the moment passes, the light snuffed out, leaving them in a shady-gray world once more._

_"Thank you." The kid nods in reply.  
_

_The man breathes in the tobacco easily, the moisture in the air allowing for a generous plum of smoke as he exhales. Cas pulls a tentative sip from his own cigarette and immediately coughs._

_He feels his face burn red but the kid just chuckles lightly and says nothing. He tries again. The smoke is sour and thick but he holds it in his throat a moment before breathing out, just barely suppressing another coughing fit._

_"Low-tar man?" The kid asks._

_Cas stares at him and feels his stomach flip happily at his gorgeous smile, along with a small mixture of annoyance and embarrassment at his ridiculous lack of focus all of sudden._ _But something else prickles at the back of his mind. Something in those striking green eyes feels uncanny, almost... familiar._

_"I'm Michael," the kid says, interrupting his thoughts._

_"Jimmy."_

_Michael smiles again, but it's different. As if he's thinking of some secret joke._

_"Good to meet you, Jimmy."_

_"I think I know you," Cas blurts without thinking._

_"Sorry?"_

_"You...just look familiar. Have we met?"_

_"Nah, don't think so. No, I'd definitely remember meeting you."  Cas feels the man give him the once-over and, even in the dark, he blushes._

_"I'm sure I know you from somewhere."_

_Michael shrugs easily, "I just have one of those faces, I guess."_

_But Castiel doesn't think so. He doubts if there are a hundred people in the world with a jawline like that._

_"You alright there, buddy? You look worried,"_

_Cas looks up. "Not worried, no," he says, "Confused."_

_"About?"_

_"You."_

_The kid chuckles, "Join the club, Jimmy."_

_Castiel stares at the kid in a kind of awe. Three months he's been undercover and never once has he met anyone associated with Tiger Lily's goons so carefree, (handsome,) or really,_ normal _, as Michael appears to be. "What are you doing here?" Cas blurts again._

_"Excuse me?"_

_"What...what is someone like you doing in a place like this?"_

_"I could ask you the same thing, bud."_

_"I'm just a guy with skills looking for work." It sounds rehearsed, he knows. But somehow he doesn't think it's going to matter._

_"What sort of skills?"_

_"Muscle." Cas feels himself sliding back into his undercover persona, after the initial shock of seeing the kid had thrown him off-balance. The kid in question raises an eyebrow._

_"Really?"_

_"Would you care to test me?" Cas asks lowly._

_"Easy tiger. I was just asking."_

_"What about you? What's your skill-set?"_

_"Wet-work."_

_Cas can't suppress a surprised twitch. This kid? This_  child  _performing murder for hire?_

 _Michael stares him down but Cas stares right back._ " _That's difficult to believe," he speaks carefully. But he must believe it. There's no sign, no tell-tale tingle to signal the kid is lying._

_"That's the genius of it." The kid grins and shoots Cas a cheeky wink. And there it is again. That knowing. A deja vu so intense Cas almost feels like he's dreaming._

_"Are you sure we haven't met?"_

_So much for the persona._

_"Positive._ _Although..." Michael slides the word out and Cas can feel the atmosphere shift rather abruptly, " I'm_ not _so sure I wouldn't like to take you up on your offer sometime."_

_"What offer?"_

_"To test your_ skills _."_

_The double-entendre is unmistakable. Even for someone as socially illiterate as Castiel. He feels his throat go dry._

_"I'd like that," he whispers._  

_* * *_

It was nothing, really. The smallest, most insignificant conversation. A passing hello, a late-night smoke, a touch of flirtation. And yet it was everything. How could he not have seen it? Michael was Dean. He's sure of it now. Seeing Dean's face the other night, it'd all come crashing down on him like a bucket of freezing water. He was the blindest idiot who'd ever lived. Sure it had been dark and, true, the last time he'd seen Winchester the kid had only been fourteen. But even so. 

Cas mulls over the events in his mind, trying to piece together where he went wrong, how one person could possibly screw up so badly, and he feels something hard and cold settle in his gut as he realizes the truth: 

He has a blind spot for the boy in the fire. And it's growing.  

* * *

Dean is pissed. 

How the hell could he have fucked up so badly? He had the Impala within his grasp. He'd actually had his hands on her. And still those shit-for-brains feds had managed to snatch her away. Again. 

It was such a simple thing: Find the car. Get the car. Leave with the car. But, no! A perfectly laid plan and all he's got is a nasty gash in his arm to show for it. That and his wounded pride.

It's like he can't even pull off the most rudimentary of tasks anymore. This city is fucking with his head. 

The cycle pulls over into a back alley several safe miles from the disaster zone the lot has become, the sirens already fading, zipping after a red-herring they'd set up as a failsafe. Dean is loathe to admit it, but his driver had done a damn good job ditching their pursuers. Neat, subtle, devious. Just like she is. 

But he'd die before ever letting her know he thought that. 

He leaps from the bike even as the engine cuts, eager to extricate himself from the vixen's presence as soon as possible. 

"You owe me one, Winchester," the woman says in her posh English drawl. She slips off her helmet, revealing straight-as-sin dark hair and sharp, catlike features. 

"How about I don't kill you and we'll call it even?" Dean growls. 

The woman rolls her eyes. 

"Don't be a child, Dean-o. That Tiger-Lily bit was as much your fault as it was mine." 

Dean just glares at her. He is no mood. She sighs.

"Fine. Hold your grudge. You going to be alright, there?" She asks, nodding at his bleeding elbow where one of the little monsters had gotten in a lucky bite, "Looks like trouble."

"Like you give a damn."

She sighs dramatically. "You're right. I don't care." She starts turn away from him, slowly, teasingly. Like she's hoping he'll stop her, "I'll just be on my merry way, then? After all I did just save your sorry arse." 

"Don't push it," he warns.

"If I hadn't spotted the rat and set off the alarms, you'd be sitting in custody right now. On your way to the electric chair, no doubt."

"Yeah, you're a real saint," he growls, "Get out of here, Bela. Before I change my mind."

"Not even a thank you?" Another glare. "Fine, then," she says again, "But this squares us, Dean. I mean it. I don't want to keep looking over my shoulder for your shadow." 

"Just stay out of my way."

"And you'll leave me alone?" She looks nervous. She should. 

"Yes," he promises, then adds, "I've got bigger fish to fry." 

Satisfied, Bela slips her helmet back in place. "You really should take care of that. It's not good to let these things fester."

"Thank god you're here to drop those knowledge bombs."

He can practically see her rolling her eyes beneath the helmet. To his immense relief she hits the ignition and kicks off from the ground, rumbling away from him at last. Associating with the witch always leaves such a bad taste in his mouth

"Oh! And Dean?" Bela turns back, flipping back her visor to flash him a cutting grin, "Maybe I'll look up that FBI guy. He was  _cute_." 

"You stay away from him!" Dean snaps.

The words are out before Dean has any intention of saying them. He bites his tongue. Hard. But it's too late. Bela smiles wickedly, giving him a mock salute, "Yessir." She speeds away before he can get in another jab. Leave it to the bitch to always take the last word. 

Dean groans and runs a hand down his face. The movement aggravates the wound in his arm and he glances down distastefully. He really should take care of that. 

Dean pays some kid to buy the supplies he needs, then checks into a motel under an alias. It's amazing really. Even with a manhunt on, flash the right amount of cash and the only face people notice is Benny Franklin's. 

He stands in front of the bathroom mirror and carefully strips off his button down, wincing slightly as the sticky sleeve rips the precocious scabs from his skin. His undershirt is bloody too, so he tugs it off over his head. His eyes fall briefly, as they always do, to the bright red scar marring his shoulder: The perfect shape of a human hand. 

Dean shakes his head and goes to work cleaning and bandaging the wound, taking extra care to disinfect the bite. Like the she-devil said, it's not good to leave these things to fester. 

* * *

Castiel wonders how much carpets cost. How much would it take to cover a whole room? He has no idea. His apartment had come fully furnished. How ridiculous is that? He's a grown man and he's never once had to carpet a room.

"Boss?"

And what if just one piece is damaged? Do you have to re-carpet the whole space or can you just replace the problem section? 

"Cas!"

Cas startles from where he's been nervously pacing deep trenches into Hannah's living room floor. Hannah is eyeing him like, well, like he'd come over at eight o'clock in the morning and then proceeded to say nothing for next ten minutes.

"What?"

"Did you come over for a reason?" 

Cas nods. Hannah stares.  

"...Well?" 

Cas fidgets a little, not sure where to start.  "Do you..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "Do you remember the Tiger Lily case? From last year?"

"The drug ring?"

Cas nods.  

"What about it?"

Cas takes a deep breath, this is it. Hannah is his oldest and dearest friend. If he can't make her understand, he doesn't stand a chance with Anna and the others.  

"I saw him."

"Saw who?"

"Dean."

" _Dean_? Dean Winchester Dean?"

"Yes."

"Last night?"

"Last year. Well, last year then last night."

" _What?_ Where? When? Wh-... _how_? And why the hell didn't you say anything?" 

"Because I didn't know it was him. And I don't appreciate that tone, Hannah."

"I'm sorry, Boss. But, just...jeeze."

"I know."

Hannah looks nearly as lost as Cas feels, "What happened?"  

He gives her the Reader's Digest version. 

"But...Boss," she manages when he's finished, "If what you're saying is true, why are you here? Why aren't you telling the Director all this?"

"I..."

Cas bites the inside of his cheek. How much should he tell her? Cas trusts Hannah with his life but that's the problem. Their partnership works so well because they are both loyal to a fault with an impenetrable sense of duty. But if Cas tells Hannah what he wants to tell her, he'll be putting her in an impossible position: Forcing her to choose between loyalty and duty, between their friendship and her obligations to the bureau. Can he really do that to her? 

But if he doesn't tell her, isn't that just as much a betrayal?

Hannah sits on the couch, staring up at him worriedly. No, he decides, he can't.

"I just... I need your help."

This burden is his to carry alone.

Well. His and Dean Winchester's. 

* * * 

_"I'd like that."_

_Michael steps in closer._

_"Would you, really?"_

_The kid steps in again, invading Cas's personal space, forcing him back up against the fence. Cas can smell the tobacco and liquor on his breath, swears he can feel the heat radiating off the other man's body._

_"Yes."_

_He leans in. Michael's lips brush against his ear and Cas can't suppress a shudder._

_"Show me."_

_Cas could shove him off easily, could have the kid on the ground and unconscious before he knew what was happening. But he stops himself, and not just because he's resolved not to do that sort of thing anymore. It's because he doesn't want to. Doesn't want Michael to move. He finds his being exactly where he is oddly comforting. Sort of... right._

_"I don't want to hurt you."_

_"I don't think you will."_

_"You don't think I could?"_

_"I'm sure you could," he answers with a smile, "That's not what I said."_

_Cas feels something deep inside him growl and he cocks his head._

_Suddenly both cigarette butts drop to the ground as Cas spins the kid around and presses his arms behind his back, pinning him to the gate in one swift motion. The hold doesn't hurt, Cas knows, but the kid's also completely immobilized. Michael lets out a breath that's half-gasp, half-laughing._

_"Looks like I was right," he breathes. Cas lets go._

* * *  

* * *

Dean loves the sun. He misses it. He so rarely allows himself outside in the daylight hours anymore. But desperate times call for awesome measures. And, in this case, the daytime is, ironically, the only sanctuary he has left. People are paranoid at night. People don't give two shits about you during the day. Too busy with their own hectic, melodramatic lives to give a flying fuck about a curious stranger. 

He stands, not across from the lot like last night, but right next to it. He leans against the same wire fence he so frantically scrambled over just a few hours ago and casually lights a cigarette. A few yards away the police are wrapping up their crime scene, rolling away the yellow tape, having learned all they could from what Dean likes to call a "dry-scene." That is, one without a body. 

It's time for Plan B. Well, Plan C technically, since Plan A had involved not losing the fucking car in the first place. Plan C relies on a entirely different set of skills. One where his confidence has yet to be shaken-- unlike his superspy skills which had been so spectacularly crushed the night before. 

Although, apparently not devastatingly enough to scare the brashness out of him. He must be crazy. Hanging around his own crime scene like this with the city on high alert. What the hell is wrong with him lately? It's like the universe wants him to get caught. Like he needs any sort of help with that. 

Dean shakes these thoughts from his head.  _Focus_ , he thinks,  _that's your problem._ A moment later he spots his mark.

Aaron Bass, his name is. Young, cute in a nerdy sort of way, and the perfect person to get Dean what he wants. Dean's been scouting the kid for almost a week now, ever since his car was taken, and he's almost positive the boy's your classic closet case. Or, at least bi-curious enough to fall for Dean's charm. But Aaron's absolute best quality is his inventory position at the Chicago PD.

Not a cop. Not even a lab geek. But a grunt with just enough access to get Dean where he needs to go. Nobody ever thinks about the interns, Dean muses. The big people stare right through them, stepping over them day after day, using them as coffee dispensers and copy machines. Never knowing, never noticing. Never appreciating. Assholes.

Well, all that is about to change for Aaron Bass. Dean is going to appreciate the  _fuck_ out of him. 

Dean flicks his cigarette aside and steals after his golden ticket.

He follows Bass for the next few hours, careful to stay out of sight. He has a few close calls where he's sure the kid must have spotted him, but each time turns out to be a false alarm. When Bass finally stops off at a bar around six, Dean is more than ready to make his move. This type of action requires finesse, which is really more his strong suit anyway. He loves any sort of work that requires him to be someone other than himself. 

Dean gives Aaron a solid ten minutes alone at the bar before he moves in. He whispers something to the bartender then sits himself a few bar-stools down from Bass with a pretty girl between them. A girl, by the way, whom Bass has expressed exactly no interest in since he sat down-- more evidence towards Dean's closet theory. It quickly becomes obvious the girl is interested, but Dean resolutely ignores her advances until she finally gives up when a drink arrives for her. The same drink Dean had ordered and asked the bartender to tell the girl had come from the nice gentleman across the room. The moment she leaves, Dean scoots over into the space between him and Aaron.

"Thanks for that," he says. 

Aaron looks up. For a terrifying instant, Dean worries Bass might recognize him. But the kid only looks confused.

"For what?" He asks. 

Dean matches his baffled look, "You didn't do that?" He gestures to where the girl and Dean's unwitting stooge are hitting off poorly after the drink confusion. Aaron shakes his head. The gentleman's girlfriend returns to the table and the misunderstanding grows even more comical. 

"Too bad," says Dean, "I'd love you for it if you did." 

Aaron blushes, "Sorry."

"Tell you what," Dean says, flashing his most charming smile, "How's 'bout I buy you a drink anyhow? Call it paying it forward." 

Aaron looks flattered and a little bemused at being approached, "Alright," he answers quietly. 

Dean grins.

Half an hour later, Dean's got the intern considerably sauced up and easily bending beneath his charm. 

"Cute and funny," Dean praises Aaron's awkward attempt at a joke, ordering the kid his fourth slammer of the night. For Dean's part, he's been matching Bass drink for drink and has only just started to feel the slightest buzz in the back of his skull. It takes years of training to get to Dean's level. The poor kid doesn't stand a chance.

"You wanna get out of here?" Dean asks suddenly. In his experience bluntness gets job done more often than not. 

"S-sure thing."

Dean gets up. He has it all planned out. He'll fool around out back with the kid for few minutes before suggesting they go somewhere more private. Then, when Bass mentions they can't go back to his place because of his roommates, Dean'll act all depressed like that's the end of it. At which point Aaron will suggest heading to his workplace. It's perfect. And even if the conversation doesn't go quite that way, Dean will navigate it to the same end anyhow. After that, it'll be beddy-bye-time for a (gently) roofied Aaron and reunion time at last for him and his long-lost Baby. 

Dean's turning to go when he feels a hand on his arm, "Wait," Aaron says, the alcohol in his veins helping to conjure up some boldness. "One more drink," he pleads, "On me this time. It's the least I can do." Frankly, Dean's surprised Aaron has enough brain-cells left to formulate an argument that convincing, but he settles back down nonetheless. "Sure thing," he echoes. 

* * *

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Director, he really didn't know."

"Be quiet, Agent Johnson."

"I swear I didn't realize-"

"Novak!"

Castiel shuts up. Next to him, Hannah casts him a sympathetic look. She did try, god bless her. 

Anna rubs her brow. "Jesus, Castiel," she groans, "I just- this can't happen right now."

Now Castiel is confused, "But it is happening, Director."

"Surely, this can only help with the investigation," Hanna pipes up, "This means there's a connection between Dean Winchester and the Tiger Lily drug cartel. That's  _huge_."  

"Sure, " says Anna, "It  _would_ be. It would be  _fantastic_. If it was coming from any other source."

Cas feels himself deflate, "You're saying you don't believe me?" 

Anna doesn't say anything. She crosses the room and shuts her office door. Not that it makes much difference. Glass walls and everything. 

"Cas. You have to realize how this looks," she says, fighting to maintain a modicum of composure, "Do you know what will happen when I take this news upstairs? Do you have any idea the shit storm it will bring down on this department when they find out we've been sitting on this information?"

"But you haven't been-"

" _Exactly_. _You_ have."

"I told you-"

"I _know_ Castiel. I know! But look at it from anyone else's perspective and this whole thing becomes so screwed up. You're Castiel Novak. The agent who saved Winchester when he was just a rookie. Who dropped the ball on the criminal eight years ago." Castiel winces. "The only person to see the man just  _last night_ before he escaped  _again_. And now,  _now,_ you want to me to go to the brass and tell them that, in addition to all of that, you saw him just days before the Tiger Lily fiasco last year and didn't say anything--whether you recognized him or not is immaterial," she insists, cutting off his objection,"You saw him. You saw him and did nothing. That's all they'll hear. Do you realize what this is adding up to, Novak? Do you get it?" 

"Yes," he answers quietly. It's all he can say.  

"And now he's in the wind again. After last night, he could be anywhere. He could be a thousand miles away."

"No," says Cas quickly, "He's still here."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't get what he came for," Cas answers firmly, "We still have the impala. He won't leave without it."

"You're psychic now?"

"I know him."

"Yeah," Anna breaths. Her fingers reach for her temples as she collapses into her chair, "Don't I know it." 

"Have the others made any progress?" Hannah asks. 

"I don't know," the director sighs, she doesn't look up, "They won't tell me anything." 

"Really?"

"Really. This is so far out of our control guys, we might as well be insects." 

Seeing Anna look so worn and devastated, the guilt almost overwhelms him. She doesn't deserve for suffer for his mess. This is his fault, after all. All of it. He was the fool who couldn't read the signs...

 

* * * 

_Cas stares at his own hands in shock, wondering what the hell had come over him. What is he thinking, springing himself on this kid like that, letting loose such a blatant and impulsive move just to show up some cute, mouthy hitman?  Whatever happened to discretion? Hell, whatever happened to self-control?_

_Cas looks up at Michael, ready to apologize or make some excuse, but instead finds the kid smiling at him softly, "I knew it," he says._

_"Knew what?"_

_"I knew you had it in you."_

_Cas cocks his head, in confusion this time._

_"I don't understand."_

_"That's okay," says Michael. He looks over Castiel's shoulder abruptly, "Looks like my ride's here." Cas turns to look and sees a moving van--the kind Tiger-Lily likes to hide ammo shipments in--pulling up into the warehouse parking lot._

_A figure leaps from the driver's side, catches sight of the two of them, and sends Michael some sort of hand signal._

_"Damn," Michael spits, "Light again. Lilith's gunna kill me."_

_"Why?"_

_"It's mine. I run arms for her."_

_"You said you were a wetworker."_

_Michael shrugs. "Guess I lied."_

_"You lied?"_

_"Well don't look so put off about it, 'Jimmy'."_

_"But... you lied. You lied and I didn't-" Cas frowns in confusion._

_"Relax, buddy. I'm sorry I'm not a murderer. But honestly, you're the first person to ever be discouraged by that."_

_"It's not-"_

_"Listen, bud, I've gotta go. Don't wanna keep the boss waiting."_

_"...Right."_

_Michael starts to walk away but he stops at the gate and turns back._

_"Hey, Jimmy, listen," he says._

_Cas looks up._

_"There, um," he casts his eyes downward and shuffles his feet, stomping out the little cigarette butt with a vigor, "These are some dangerous people, you know."_

_Cas blinks in surprise, '"I can take care of myself, Michael."_

_"I know you can," the kid says, perfectly serious for the first time that night, "but, still, you, um...You may wanna steer clear. Just for the next couple of days. Take a vacation. Get out of town for a while."_

_"Why? What do you-"_

_"I gotta go, Jimbo," Michael says turning away abruptly. Then, without turning around he calls, "Remember what I said."_

_And then he's gone. Disappeared into the blinding light of the warehouse doorway._

_* * *_

He should have known it then. Only one other person had ever lied to him in his adult life and gotten away with it. He should have put the pieces together so much sooner. 

But no. 

The truth is he’s never really understood the subtleties of human behavior. Even in his personal life, grappling with emotional and social complexities has never been his strong suit. Castiel is a hunter and a soldier. His job is to follow patterns and evidence, to see the bigger picture, stay objective. It’s a job he does very well.

Except, apparently, when it comes to Dean.

For some reason, when dealing with Dean Winchester, Cas has found it near impossible to separate his personal feelings from the job. And despite himself, he’s grown increasingly fascinated by this elusive man with the deadly grudge and the pretty face.

Despite his best efforts, something has squirmed its way inside his mind and soul. Something with a weakness for the Winchester boy. Something he can't explain, can't control. Something that's cost everyone around him dearly. 

And if he can't get a handle on it soon, it might just cost them Dean Winchester for good.  

"Director-" Cas starts, but is interrupted by a voice at the door. 

"Director-"

"What?" Anna practically shrieks. Everyone turns to look at the unfortunate messenger in the doorway. He shrinks a little under their heavy gaze but his own eyes are shining bright. 

"M'am," he says breathlessly, "We got him."  

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean is drunk. Which is nothing new, except this time he has no idea how it happened or where he is. It's terrifying in a way, but at the same time he can't find it in himself to care. Which is also terrifying. 

The world is spinning and the good-looking guy sitting across from him has started speaking in in strange drawn-out tones. But he's so cute, Dean barely even notices. The guys asks an indecipherable question and Dean finds himself nodding. Suddenly he's getting up, leading the guy outside. He leans forward to whisper in his ear, feels a strong hand on his wrist.

That's when he hears the handcuffs. 

* * *

Agent Henriksen likes to think outside the box. No one great ever did anything worth noting by playing by the rules.  

Take the Winchester case for example. 

For eight years now, Winchester has been giving the agency the slip, running wild, brazenly leaving behind his flaming trail of bodies. Making the bureau look like a bunch of incompetent children when he himself is nothing more than a spoiled child who happened to have a nutjob for a father. It's a shame about his dad, really it is. The poor kid never stood a chance. But that doesn't excuse what he's done. Doesn't earn him a free pass or anything less than Henriksen's absolute obsession. When the agent sees something he wants, he's like a pitbull: he'll do whatever it takes to get it and he never lets go. 

Henriksen's never once entered a battle he couldn't win. And over his dead body will he be made a fool of by Dean motherfucking Winchester. 

When the case first came across his desk, via a direct assignment from overhead, Henriksen has to admit he was stumped. How to solve the unsolvable? How to catch fire in your hand? But reality dawned on him quickly enough: Dean Winchester is just a man. He is not some supernatural thing, he is not the ghost he's got everyone convinced he is. He's an animal just like the rest of them. And an animal can be hunted, an animal can be caught. All you need is the right trap with the right bait.

And patience. Patience above all else. 

Henriksen knew he'd have to get creative to catch one of the country's most slippery criminals. Winchester has a reputation for bizarre means and ends and thriving on the unexpected. So a simple honey trap would not do. To catch a deviant you must think deviously. And thus, Operation Jus In Bello, Henriksen's two-part trap was born. 

Just hours after Dean's car was found, Agent Henricksen set to work. He had the Impala transferred to an overflow lot in the middle of town with easy access points and a cute, young intern working the inventory list. He tracked down said cute intern and informed him he had a great opportunity in store to jump-start the kid's career if he only cooperated. And Bass, the overeager, underappreciated, penny-a-day intern excitedly complied. 

Part one was simple enough: Coordinate with the Chicago PD to very, very discreetly stake out the impound lot and wait for Winchester to make his move. Let the pieces fall as they would, likely resulting in Winchester's "escape," making sure only to keep the car out of his reach. 

Having lured Winchester into a false sense of security; letting him think he'd outsmarted the feds, the second step would require a tad more finesse-- and just a touch of rule-breaking. But as Henriksen's realized; to catch the uncatchable, one must do the unthinkable. That's where Bass came into play. 

The kid played his part to perfection. Though just an intern, Bass is actually an incredible actor and Henriksen can see him going far as an undercover cop or even an FBI agent one day. And he'll have Henriksen to thank for giving him his first big break as it were. But it'll still be nothing compared to what Henriksen has to thank Bass for. He practically handed him Winchester on a silver platter. 

It was a simple matter to slip the sedative into Winchester's drink. After that, Bass stepped aside and Henriksen moved in to scoop up a horny, inebriated Winchester and nail him to the wall. 

And that, my friends, is how you catch the world's cockiest ghost. 

* * *

_Fire._

_Fire everywhere._

_It's pet smoke choking him, blinding him, sucking the breathability right out of the air. The unbearable heat, and the noxious smell. Oh god, the smell. Like nothing the child had ever experienced before. A nightmare come to life._

_His father's panicked shouts, his little brother's silent wriggling in his arms, too exhausted to even cry. His own hot tears stinging his face. Scrambling through the house, the endless rooms suddenly so maze-like in the dark, like a dream. He can't breathe. He can't see. It's dry, so dry. So hot. So_ loud.

_He's coughing, he can't find the door. His father's voice in his mind, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now, Dean! Go!"_

_Sammy._

_He has to save Sammy._

_He has to get out._

_Out. Out._

_Where is out?_

_He can't get out._

_The world has become a swirling mess of sharp crackling, blistering heat and gagging odors. Then, through it all he hears a voice, deep, dark and cold. Laughter. Someone's laughing. Someone is going to kill them._

* * * 

Dean jerks awake. Years of experience are all that stop the scream from escaping his lips. He swallows hard and breathes deep, feeling the sharp, cool air fill his lungs. He closes his eyes.  _You're fine_ ,he thinks, _In and out_. 

He's almost certain the nightmares have been getting worse since he came to this damn city. Yet another reason he should have gotten the fuck out of here when he had the chance. But it's all bullshit, he knows. He could never have left without the Impala. He still couldn't. 

Not that that's even remotely an option anymore. 

He sits up slowly, alone in the drunk tank, and mentally checks himself over for injuries, analyzing his state of mind. He's hung over, that's for sure. But there's something else beneath it, too. A sort of slowness, a dry-as-cotton feeling on his tongue, a heaviness to his limbs. 

Dean doesn't remember much from last night. He knows that sometime during the night he lost track of Bass. Knows the guy that took him down was a tall, black man. Has a sneaking suspicion irony is playing a major role here as far as drug-assists go. 

Dean has to admit a grudging respect for the sneaky bastard who'd beaten him at his own game.

Very clever.

Very illegal _._

There's something important he's forgetting. Something positive in the middle of this gigantic fuckfest he's landed himself in. Something that sets his skin all atingle. If he could only think straight...

He's more or less screwed himself into a corner...literally. He knows that. Even if he gets out of this, his life as he knows it is over. There'll be no undercover life after this. Never again will he mingle with the normal people in the sun. At least not in America. And he can't imagine going anywhere else. 

Dean feels a cold sickness settle in his gut. But no, he hasn't failed. Not yet. He didn't get this far by falling to pieces at every twist in the road. 

An officer enters for the shift change and she and the desk sergeant exchange a few words in hushed tones. Dean keeps his eyes closed and listens closely, hoping for something, anything that could give him an edge in the coming hours. 

It's mostly drivel. They talk about him, but nothing he didn't already know. Dean's about to give up and try for some sleep, when his ear picks up the word, "Novak." 

And suddenly he remembers. Dean's eyes fly open and the beautiful light bursts through the cobwebs of his tired mind like the first rays of the sun. And suddenly the world doesn't seem to suck quite so much.

Dean gets to see his Angel.   

* * *

Castiel has been banished. The minute Anna recovered from her shock long enough to confirm Dean's presence in custody, she all but shoved Castiel out the door and locked it behind him. "Take the day," she'd said, "Take two." 

He was supposed to go home. But how could he with the knowledge that Dean Winchester was sitting in a jail cell, just waiting to be processed and brought in? What's he supposed to do with that information swirling around his brain? Watch TV? 

He can't be in the office, but he doesn't stay home, opting instead to hover around it like a bee, anxiously filling up with espresso at the coffee shop just down the street from the agency the following morning. 

He sits at the little table, staring hard at the glass building across the way, thinking. Thinking so many thoughts it's difficult to even try to order them. 

What happens now? Is this really it? Will Dean stay caught this time? 

What if he decides to talk? What if he decides to tell them the truth about everything including the Tiger Lily disaster and his warning to Cas? --Did Dean even know that was Cas he'd spoken to that night?-- Or worse; what if he doesn't? What if he makes up all sorts of lies, just for the hell of it. Or what if he doesn't say anything at all? With his silence only affirming the rumors that are sure to be spiraling out of control by now. 

Does it even matter? If they won't let him see Dean, isn't the rest of it immaterial?

It's eating away at him, not having been the one to catch Winchester after all these years. More than it should. Don't misunderstand, Castiel is glad such a dangerous criminal is off the streets. But after their lifelong game of cat-and-mouse, Cas expected to feel a little more...closure.  

He feels like he's just run a marathon only to come to the end and find someone else had reached the finish line first, rolled it up, and sauntered away with it. 

Cas stares broodingly into his coffee, wondering what the hell had come over him these past few days. Wasn't it just last week his biggest problem was the Dick Roman scandal and whether or not to wear a tie on casual Friday? 

Cas is not an authority on human emotions. Usually, he leaves the psych-profiling and Vulcan mind-melding to the professionals and goes where they point him. But now he's starting to think he may be even more out of touch with his own soul than he thought. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to seek out some help from someone who understood such things. A human expert, as it were... 

Just then his phone rings. It's Hannah.

"Boss," she says,"You'd better get down here." He can hear arguing loudly in the background, "And I'd hurry." 

Cas waits just long enough to pay his bill before he's sprinting down the street. When he arrives he's greeted by an almost comical sight. Everyone in the office stops and stares at him as he walks in. They all look extremely uncomfortable. Through the glass doors he sees Anna and three men going at each other's throats with a gusto. Before he can react, Hannah is rushing up to him, pulling him aside. 

"What's going on?" He asks, bewildered. 

"They brought him in," Hannah whispers, "He's downstairs in interrogation. They think they can get a confession out of him."

Cas raises a surprised brow, "Really?" That doesn't sound like Dean. 

Hannah shrugs helplessly, "That's all I know. But from what I've heard, it's not going very well and..."

"What?"

"Sammie went in there earlier. He said your name came up." 

At that moment, one of the men in Anna's office catches sight of him and all four turn to stare. Cas is suddenly very uncomfortable. He can feel the tingles sparkling around the back of his brain and down his spine. Something's up. 

Anna meets his eye and excuses herself. She catches him by the elbow and yanks him off to the side a lot more forcefully than Hannah had. Cas is starting to feel a little like the ball at a sporting event, being tossed back and forth, everyone's eyes on him. 

"What are you doing here?" Anna hisses, "I thought I told you to stay away." 

"I thought maybe you'd changed your mind."

Anna gives him an odd look, "Why would you think that?"

"Just a feeling." 

"You ever think you spend too much time listening to your 'feelings' and not enough obeying orders?" Says Anna, but there's no venom in it. She's far too tired for that. There's something else too. Some reason she's decided to stand here and reprimand him instead of throwing him out right away. 

"What's going on, Director?" 

Anna shifts on her feet and glances nervously up into her office, "They wanted to call you in." 

 "Why?"

Anna just looks at him. The buzzing in his skin reaches its peak. And the truth ricochets through his brain like a wayward bullet. 

"Dean asked for me. Didn't he?"

Anna nods slowly. "We need his confession to seal this thing," she admits reluctantly, painfully, "And he won't talk to anyone else."

* * *

Dean is being stubborn. He knows that. But if every ounce of control is about to be taken away from him forever, goddamnit he's going to have this one thing. And screw anyone who thinks otherwise. This is his show. 

A long time ago, another lifetime it seems, Dean's world was perfect. He had a loving mother and father, a beautiful baby brother, a lovely little house. A home. Then in one swift blaze of terror and flame all that was taken away.There he was, four years old, clutching his infant brother to his chest, hacking up smoke, thinking he was going to die, believing this was the end. Everything around him was heat and ash and darkness. All alone.

And then _he_ was there. Like an Angel of God sent from heaven just for him. He came through the darkness, bringing the light with him, pulled him and Sammy from the fire and the flames and the thick, choking fear. He saved them. And he never stopped saving him. 

And if Dean is very, very lucky, Castiel is going to save him one more time. 

"I don't think you realize how much trouble you're in," Henriksen says again. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "I don't think you realize how much trouble  _you're_ in," he answers.

"Is that a threat Mr. Winchester? I'd love for that to be threat."

"Just a fact," says Dean, "You know what you did.  _I_ know what you did. And if you don't want anyone else to know what you did... well. That's just one more reason for you to get the hell out of here and give me what I want."

"No one is giving you what you want, Dean. You can sit in here and make wise-ass remarks until you can't breathe, you'll never see your little friend again. And just a tip, it's not a great negotiating move to threaten the only person willing to even come this close to talk to you."

"Aw, that's sweet Agent. Give us a kiss." 

"You think you're funny."

"I think I'm adorable." 

"You're looking at the death penalty, Mr. Winchester. If I were you, I'd wise up and start talking something other than that constant bullshit. You've got a lot of ammo, you know. A lot of these guys want a lot of information from you. Now, me, I could go either way. Personally, I'll be satisfied to see you drooling in that chair with in a needle in your arm, bodies or no bodies. But the families of your victims... let's just say a little cooperation from you might go a long way." 

"The families of my  _alleged_ victims punch the air when they don't come home. You don't know shit. And you won't. Not ever." 

"And you think Mr. Novak understands you?"

"I think you've been in here for hours getting nowhere. I'm starting to think you just like me." 

"I know what you think he's done for you. But it's all in your head. You're nothing to him, Dean. Just another case. And you're not dealing with him. You're dealing with me. So, I suggest you shut up about that agent and start talking about yourself." 

"I can tell you I'm hungry as shit. Why don't you make yourself useful and get me a burger. Extra onions. It's all your good for anyway."

"I suppose you don't think catching your sorry ass is much of an accomplishment."

Dean leans forward slightly, "Not when you cheat."

Henriksen slams a hand down onto the table Dean's chained to. Dean smiles, proud he's struck a nerve.  

As far as plans go, this may be Dean's riskiest one yet. And considering how the last couple have played out that really doesn't bode well for his future. But he's cornered, scraping the bottom of the barrel and, as he realized before, desperate times call for awesome measures. And this is going to be awesome. 

Deans leans back.

"Castiel Novak."

"No."

Dean shrugs. He's got all the time in the world. 

Henriksen keeps berating him. Really, Dean has to admire his perseverance. You'd think after hearing "Go fuck yourself" in every possible iteration the agent might get it through his head that Dean isn't going to talk to him. But he keeps at it for another twenty minutes at least before making some excuse about coffee and letting Dean "stew" and storming out with a parting, "I'll make sure they know about that burger for your last meal." 

Dean sighs and leans back, fiddling with the handcuff chain, contemplating the entertainment value of picking them before Henriksen returns. The bastards leave him alone in there for nearly an hour before he makes the decision to go for it. 

Then suddenly, he feels it. Like a sixth sense racing through him: He's here. He's close.

Dean looks up, stares straight through the mirrored window, and smiles. 

* * *

"What the hell," Hannah breathes, "He can't see us, can he?"

"Of course not," says Anna, but even she sounds a little a shaken by Dean's sudden action.  

Castiel doesn't answer.

He meets Dean's gaze through the window, knowing that even though, yes, there was no way Dean could actually _see_ him, the kid somehow knew he was there. The same way Cas always knew when something wasn't quite right. Like now. 

"You're not going in there alone," says Anna. 

"Director-"

"No Cas. It's bad enough you have to go in there at all." 

"You know that's not what he wants."

"Screw what he wants! This isn't up to him!"

"It kind of is," says Hannah meekly. 

"She's right," Cas interjects before Anna can chide her, "We can pin over dozen murders on him, but he's killed only he knows how many more. We don't know where half the bodies are buried, Director. We need him talking and if this is the only way-"

"Alright! Alright, Novak. I get the picture. But the powers to be and I are going to be right here the whole time. There's no way around that."

"I understand." 

As if on queue, three agents walk in the door. Cas recognizes them as those arguing in Anna's office earlier. They all greet each other and shake hands. 

"Agent Novak," says the man in charge, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Thank you, sir." 

"I hope you understand what's expected of you today."

The corners of Castiel's mouth tighten. He sees Hannah tense beside him. "Yessir." 

"I'll be honest with you, Agent. If I had my way, you'd be as far away from Winchester as possible. But, as it stands, that's not option." 

"No, sir." 

"The moment we get what we need, I want you out of there. You understand?"

Now, Hannah is about ready to pounce. "Yessir," Cas says.

One of the agents, a tall black gentleman, steps forward. "Better watch yourself in there, Novak," he cautions, "Seems Winchester's got a bit of a crush on you." Cas can hear the bitterness in his voice. Henriksen, the man said his name was. Castiel has a sneaking suspicion this is the man who'd pulled the rug out from under him, as it were. And who's now getting a taste of his own medicine from Dean. Must be frustrating to be told you don't quite have what it takes.  

The last agent, a doughy, white fellow wearing far too much cologne for Cas's taste, says nothing but keeps staring at Cas like the he's antichrist. Like he's about to undo all their hard work. As if he had spent any more than just a few days slaving over this case. Cas suddenly feels as though he can understand at least a few of Dean's homicidal tendencies. Some people are just unbearable. 

"I'll keep that in mind," says Cas. 

"See that you do," the higher-up says.

"We'll be watching," Anna adds, as if he'd forgotten. 

Cas receives a final nervous nod from Hannah before stepping outside. 

He pauses with his hand on the door handle, flashing back to the last time he and Dean had been in this position eight years ago. How foolish he'd been then. How sympathetic and naive. Dean, though just a child at the time, had been quick to purge all that from him, opening his eyes to the ugly, harsh truths of the real world, shattering his illusions of order and sense. He's certainly grown a lot since then. Castiel is a different man now. Is Dean? 

There's only one way to find out. 

Cas takes a deep breath, and pushes through the heavy door.  

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is waiting for him when steps into the room. Of course he is. Of course he  _knows_. 

The kid smiles that familiar, brilliant smile, "Hello, Jimmy."

Castiel stops dead.

Okay. Clearly Dean's recalling their brief encounter last year, but Cas can all but hear the alarmed murmurs from the adjacent room. What is Dean playing at?

Whatever it is, Cas decides it's best to play along for now. 

" _Michael,_ " he nods. Dean's smile widens. 

"You remember," he practically whispers. 

Cas takes a seat slowly. It's bizarre. Seeing Dean again. Even stranger than he thought it would be. The kid hasn't changed much since a year ago-- physically, but Cas hadn't known who it was he was dealing with when he'd seen him then. Now, knowing this is the same boy who tipped his world upside down eight long years ago... it's different. Examining his expression, Cas can see the rounder younger features of the little boy hidden beneath the sharper angles and soft curves of the adult's face. He looks into those startlingly green eyes and feels the same buzzing in his skull as he had back then. Feels a unbidden surge of warmth in his chest, and an irrational protective instinct. Knows beyond a doubt that this is  _Dean_. The same boy he'd pulled from the fire almost twenty years ago, the same kid who'd turned around and rocked his world ten years later, the same man he'd flirted and fought with just a few months back. The man, the criminal, the legend. No matter what lies he tells, brazen fronts he puts on, or defensive jokes he makes, Dean can never hide himself from Castiel. Not like this. 

And they both know that. He can feel it in the air. A connection, unsettling and profound, surging, stretching in the space between them like an open circuit. 

And that's how Cas feels: open, exposed. There will be no secrets here. At least, not between them.

As for everyone else, well, that remains to be seen.

"Of course I do," Cas replies carefully. Even though he actually  _had_  let it slip his mind until just two nights ago **.**

"I'd say 'long time no see' but-"

"You saw me two nights ago," Cas cuts in.

Dean smirks. "Right," he allows. 

"How've you been, Dean?" Cas asks quietly. 

The man's smile fades into something more genuine, "All the better for seeing you, Agent." 

Cas feels something hot stir in his stomach and he fights the urge to turn around, knowing he couldn't see anyone's reaction anyway. 

"And why is that?" Cas asks, genuinely curious. 

But Dean just shrugs and leans back in his chair, "They wouldn't let me see you."

"I know."

"Do you know why?" 

"Yes."

"Well, there's your answer, buddy." 

Typical evasion technique. Spin the question around and pretend it's an answer. Cas doesn't have the skills or the patience to deal with it. 

"What do you want from me exactly?"

Dean raises an eyebrow, "All business, I see."

"What do you want Dean? Why me?" 

Dean looks over his shoulder at the mirror/window.

"I want you to order a drug test."

"What?"

"I want them to test me. For rohypnol. Or something like that." 

"Why?" 

"Because I want that bastard who nailed me to share my pain. He cheated. And I want everyone here to know he cheated." 

"This isn't a game, Dean."

"It is to him." 

"And why would I help you?" 

Dean smiles a little, "Because you're a good man, Castiel. You'll do the right thing. You don't know how to do anything else."  

That comment bothers him for some reason, but Cas doesn't let on. 

"You think he drugged you?"

"I know he did." 

"Henriksen is a Federal Agent."

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, but not everyone on your side is as moral as you are." 

"Is that why you wanted to see me?" Cas asks, feeling just a touch of disappointment, as irrational as it might be, "You think I'm the only agent moral enough to do right by someone like you?"

"Don't worry, Cassy. That's not the only reason."  

Cas bites back a reflexive, "Don't call me that," not wanting to give Dean the satisfaction. "Let's say I do that," he says instead, "then what? What do you have for us?" 

"Plenty," says Dean, leaning back. "But I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise," he adds, addressing the mirror. "Drug test first, then I'll talk to you. Only to you." 

"It doesn't work like that, Dean."

"It works however I say it does."

"You have to give me something." 

Dean hunches forward again, "Incentivise me." 

Cas hesitates. He glances back over his shoulder, thinking. He has no real authority to offer much. But then again, if he really is the only one Dean will talk to...

"I'll come back," says Cas.

Dean looks surprised.

"You give me something to take back to them. Something good. And I'll come back after the drug test."

"You'd have to come back anyway."

"No," Cas insists, though really he has no idea, "They won't let me. Not unless they believe I can get something out of you no one else can. You need to show them that." 

Dean appears mildly impressed.

"Alright," He settles more comfortably in his chair, "Here's something good-- I'm not admitting to anything, just so you know."

Cas nods.

"But...I  _may_ be able to shed a little light on the disappearance of a certain suger god."

Cas sits there, dumbfounded for the better part of a minute, before he finds his voice. He can only imagine the mad scrambling going on on the other side of the wall. 

"Dick Roman?" He says, voice even gravelier than usual, "You...Dick Roman?" 

Dean only sits there with a smug smile on his face. "You gunna order me that drug test?" 

* * *

Henricksen can scarcely believe what he's seeing, let alone hearing. Two seconds with Novak and Winchester opens up like a book with a broken spine. Hours, he spent with the kid, getting nothing but wise-ass remarks and veiled threats. But now? With his little buddy in the room? Suddenly, the odds and ends of Winchester's life are his for the picking. 

He's is not overly worried about the drug test his fellow agents are already ordering. It'll come back positive but that won't prove anything. Just because Winchester has drugs in his system doesn't prove Henriksen put them there. Hell, he wouldn't put it past Dean to drug himself to have an excuse for finally getting caught. In this case, Dean's slyness will work to Henriksen's advantage. 

But Dick Roman? Who in the hell saw that coming? There's a good chance Winchester is just bragging, wanting to claim credit for such a big fish, boost his street-cred. There's no way he actually  _killed_ him right? No way the kid's got the balls. 

Most worrisome of all, though, most curious, is the repartee that seems to exists between these two. Like they're old friends just playing at cop and robber, or, in this case, fed and murderer. All the "how are you"'s and "help me help you"'s. It makes Henriksen sick. Dean is a murderer for hell's sake. And a serial murderer at that. He doesn't deserve the sort of respect Novak is affording him. He doesn't deserve to breathe. 

Why does it seem like Novak really is Winchester's little friend? Why does it seem like Dean really is crushing on Castiel? 

What is really going on in there? 

* * *

 "I'll let them know," says Cas. He starts to stand. 

"Sit down," says Dean sharply. Cas raises a surprised brow. "I'm sure you've got friends listening in. They'll take care of it. Won't you fellas?" He calls through the glass. Cas can almost hear their disgruntled murmurings. 

Castiel doesn't sit. 

"You wanna know more?" Asks Dean firmly, "Sit down." 

Cas glances toward the mirror.

"Don't look at them," Deans says, "Look at me." 

Cas turns to look at him slowly, wondering where this new attitude was coming from. Dean is angry. 

"Sit. Down."

Cas feels a sudden surge of indignancy. He's a federal agent. He doesn't have to take this. Not even from Dean Winchester himself. 

"No."

To Cas's immense satisfaction, Dean looks surprised. 

"No. No, I'm not going to do that. Now, you either tell me what you have to tell me, or I'm walking out that door, right now. And I'm never coming back." 

Cas can tell by the look on Dean's face, he's guessed right: for some reason Dean doesn't want him to leave. He's terrified of it. 

"You can't," he says.

"Watch me." 

Cas moves for the door.

"Wait," says Dean, but Cas keeps going.

"I said wait!"

Finally, Cas turns back around. He waits.

Dean smirks and gives his head a shake, "You're good, Novak. I gotta hand it to you." 

"What else do you have for me?"

Dean nods toward Cas's chair, "Will you sit?"

Cas waits.

"Pretty please?"

He sits. 

Something in room shifts when he does. Like his obedience to Dean's wishes has triggered something. Even though Cas is fairly certain he's managed to wrangle the upper-hand here. There's an intensity in Dean's eyes when he meets them, one that sends the tingles raging all across his skin, buzzing just beneath the surface.

"Talk to me," he orders.

"Brookside Cemetery," Dean says smugly, "Poke around the fresh graves there. Maybe you'll find what you're missing."

Cas suppresses a sickness at how calmly and cooly Dean is discussing having _murdered_ and buried a man.

"Which grave, Dean?"

Dean shrugs, "Don't remember."  

"Dean."

"Seriously. It was dark. I don't keep track of that stuff."

 _That stuff._ The possibility that Dean is lying in order to force law enforcement to waste the better part of their day exhuming all the fresh graves in Brookside for his own amusement is only slightly better than the possibility that he's  _not_. And he really has killed and buried so many people he's stopped keeping track. 

Unfortunately, Cas's helpful tingles have gone haywire so there's no way for him to tell which is true. 

"Fine," says Cas. 

He means to get up, but something about the way Dean is staring at him holds him in place. Cas can feel the electricity between them like a physical current, building, pulsating.

"Why me?" He asks again. He has to know. 

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. It matters to me."

Dean's mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile.

"That's why," he says quietly. 

"I don't understand." 

"I matter to you. Don't I?" 

Despite Dean's best efforts at being Mr. Tough Guy, the question leaves him vulnerable and they both feel it. 

Cas doesn't know how to answer. For years now, this case has been hanging over his head. It's kept him awake at night, it's haunted his dreams. It's been like a thorn in his side, nagging at him, something he knows he has to take care of before he can move on with his life. His White Whale. Of course this case matters to him, but...

Does Dean? 

Dean himself? The person? The criminal? The scared little boy? 

Does Dean's future matter to him beyond seeing The Grim Reaper safely behind bars? 

"How would you feel if I bolted on you?"

Cas is grateful for the change of subject. 

"You're chained to a desk, Dean," he answers dryly, "I think it's safe to say we're past the bolting stage." 

"You talking about these?" Dean raises his hands and the shackles slide uselessly from his wrists, clattering down onto the table. Cas's eyes widen. "You didn't really think you could hold me, did you?" 

Dean leans forward suddenly and whispers, "Come on now, Angel. You're smarter than that."

Dean grabs his wrist. The circuit connects. And the whole world goes batshit. 

* * *

First the little monitor cuts out with a fizzle.

Then the microphone.

Then the lights.

It happens so fast, they're all standing in darkness before anyone reacts. 

There's shouting and swearing and the emergency lights come on, providing a dim red glow by which to see...nothing. 

The interrogation room is empty. Dean is gone.

And so is Castiel. 

Someone pulls an alarm and the building starts its rhythmic screaming, loud and piercing and distracting as hell. 

Anna rushes into the hall with the others. The men break apart, splitting off down the different hallways, searching and swearing when they don't find anything. Hannah ducks her head into the interrogation room, disbelieving what she'd seen.

"Where could they go?" She asks, a little panicked, "What the hell happened?" 

No time for that now. There's a criminal loose in the building. A criminal who's taken Cas. A criminal who's about to regret the day he was ever born. 

Because if Castiel is at all damaged by the time they track Dean down, she's going to kill the bastard herself. 

Anna races away, sticking her head down every corridor she passes, radioing building security, ordering a full lock-down and a building-wide search. Dean will have nowhere to run. This SOB will not escape on her watch, not with Cas. She'll tear this building apart herself to find them, even if it kills her. 

* * *

Dean loves cars.

He loves the look of them, he loves the feel of them, he loves the smell of them. And he loves the sound of them. He loves the soft purr of an idling engine and the powerful roar of the motor as it speeds down a dirt road. He loves the soft hiss of static behind classic rock blasting on the radio. He loves the screech of tires on a sharp turn.

He hates the sound of one of them breaking. Especially, a beautiful one. But sometimes it can't be helped.

The heavy chunk of cement crashes through the sturdy window, splattering shards of glass all over the driver's seat. Dean reaches in and unlocks the door, poking around in the glove compartment. In a moment, he finds the key and the other special item he's looking for. Right where she said they would be. Damn, that girl is good. He hates that. 

He tucks the item away inside his jacket. 

Dean's about to slide into the car and speed out of the parking garage when the bullet whizzes past and buries itself in the soft metal just inches from his head. Dean throws himself on the ground, and scurries off into a nearby corner behind the elevator.

" _Shit_ ," he spits. They were faster than he anticipated. Now he's stuck.

He closes his eyes and leans against the wall, breathing heavily.  _This is it,_ he thinks,  _they got me. For real._

Running with a hostage had proven harder than it seemed in his head. Especially without a proper weapon to threaten him with. So Dean had to lose Castiel quickly.

* * * 

_"Dean, stop."_

_"Shut up," Dean replies, giving Cas's tie another threatening tug. He's got Cas pressed up against his body, his tightened tie inches away from crushing his windpipe. He yanks him into the stairwell just as the emergency lighting flickers on. Cas squirms in his grip and Dean hisses for him to stop._  

_Having Cas this close to him is actually hot as hell, but now is hardly the time focus on it. "Move," Dean growls. At that moment the stairwell door rattles as if to open and Dean has to act fast._

_He grabs Cas's gun from him and gives the man a shove, sending him rolling down a flight of stairs before leaping over the railing himself._

_He is three floors up and, even managing to catch onto the railing twice on the way down, the landing still hurts like hell. He hits the ground at a roll but his ankle is twisted and he's leaving a blood trail from... somewhere. No time to self-diagnose now._

_He stumbles to his feet and makes a bee-line for the parking garage._

_Behind him he hears a low voice calling after him and he's grateful. So grateful._

_He doesn't turn back._

_* * *_

Except now he's screwed anyway. 

"Fuck!" Dean practically shouts. How can this be happening? The totally risky part of his plan had gone off without a hitch. 

Dean actually understands very little about whatever power binds he and Castiel Novak together. He only knows that it's there and has been there ever since they first touched years ago, with the magic-- or whatever it was-- leaving its mark on him forever in the shape of his savior's handprint. 

Dean theory was only that: a theory. And when it actually worked... Dean took it as a sign from God--or from Whatever is up there that keeps pressing him and Cas together in their lives. Whatever power It is wants him to escape. He just knows it. But he'd still have to do his part. And now he's gone and fucked it all up. Again. Taken that beautiful gift and spat in its face like it was nothing.

Dean needs to kill something. Bad. 

"We're know you're in here, Dean." It's Henriksen's voice, "Just come on out nice and slow and this'll all go a lot smoother." 

Dean forces back a laugh. "Fuck you!" He calls out instead.

"Aw, come on, Dean. No need to be rude. You played a game, took a risk. You lost. Time to pay the piper." 

"It's not over 'till it's over!" Says Dean firing a shot randomly in the voice's direction. 

"It's over, Dean! It is so beyond over." 

It is so beyond over. 

* * *

The building is under lockdown. Everyone's yelling and arguing and Anna is suddenly grateful for the sound-proof walls and the dead microphone. She and Hannah circled the floor and wound up back in interrogation, desperate for answers. 

"They can't have gotten far, right?" Hannah looks up at her with worried eyes, worried for her partner. 

Anna's about to answer in a resounding affirmative when her radio squawks. 

"Director," the muffled voice says, "We've got a confirmation. Parking level B."

Anna and Hannah are out the door before the voice can sign off.

* * *

Castiel's head is killing him.  

He supposes, having been pushed down a flight of stairs by a notorious murderer, he should be grateful that's all that's wrong with him. He carefully pulls himself to his feet just in time to see Dean disappearing through a door, three stories down.

"Dean!" He calls, "Dean wait!" But of course he doesn't wait. 

Cas's head is still throbbing but he races down the stairs after him anyway. Dean's not about to get away from him. Not again. 

By the time Cas reaches the ground floor, waving off building security on the way, Henriksen, Anna, and the others, along with a small team, are already in some sort of stand off with Dean. They're spreading out, hunting him down. The garage is big but it's not that big. It's only a matter of minutes before they find him.

But Cas already has. 

He's there, sitting with his back against the elevator, eyes closed, chest heaving, Cas's gun limp in his hand. He's given up. But if he doesn't turn himself in soon he's going to wind up shot. Possibly dead.

And Cas doesn't want that.

He realizes with a start he knows the answer to Dean's question. Has known it all along, he just didn't want to admit it for fear of what it meant. Yes, Dean matters to him and yes it matters to him that Dean seems to value him above all others.

And no, he doesn't want Dean to get himself killed.

Cas spots Anna and hurries over to her. 

"Cas!" She cries, "What the hell? What happened?"

"He let me go." It's the short version of the truth.

"Where'd he go? Did you see him?"

"Yes, he's over there," Cas points to the elevator, "But, Anna, you don't need to hurt him."

"Cas, he's  _armed_." 

"I know but-"

"He  _took_ you. He threatened you. I don't care what he knows. He's all out of free passes." 

"Anna-"

Just then a gunshot rings out. Seems as though Henriksen's partner got a little too close to Dean's hiding place. 

Anna elbows him aside, "He's dangerous, Cas. Either get lost or get useful." 

Cas stands there helplessly, mind racing. 

This is going to end in bloodshed, he can feel it. The buzzing in his skull has returned to normal and he  _knows_ it. Either for Dean or his co-workers or both. He can't allow that. 

They've all started to gather around the elevator. Dean is cornered, sending out warning shots every few minutes. Cas knows his gun, knows exactly how many rounds Dean has left-- unless he fired some before Cas got down here. Either way he's running low. 

 _5...4...3..._ Two left, by Cas's count. Maybe less. 

The firing stops. 

"Winchester! It's over. Come on out," Henriksen calls. 

There's no movement from the elevator. 

"Dean!" Anna calls. Cas puts a hand on her arm. 

"Let me," he says quietly.

"No way," she says.

The sentiment is echoed by the higher-ups.

"I've been counting, he's out," Cas lies, "Please just let me talk to him." 

"If he's out, we can take him." 

"He can still hurt someone. Or himself. Just, please, no one needs to bleed here." 

Anna looks like she'd sooner jump him herself than let him go back there.

"Alright," says the lead agent suddenly. Cas looks over. The higher-up gives him a nod. "You get him to come out. Peacefully. " he says firmly. 

"Sir!" Anna protests.

But Castiel just nods. 

He moves slowly, cautiously, spare firearm out and ready. 

"Dean," he calls. No answer. 

He rounds the corner, sees Winchester on the ground, defeated. 

"Dean," he says again.  

Dean looks up at him and suddenly it's eighteen years ago and the terrified little boy in the fire is staring up at him like he's the savior sent from heaven to wash away all his pain. Cas lowers his weapon.

That's when Dean grabs him.  

* * *

Anna's heart skips a beat when she finally sees them.

It's like stepping into a dream. The image of the crazed killer with a gun to her friend's head just can't be real.

But it is. It's very real. And it's happening right now. 

"Move back!" Dean shouts, "I said move back!"

They all step back.

"Put your guns on the ground."

The group hesitates. Dean presses the gun even harder into Cas's jaw.

"I've got one shot left. Don't think I won't use it!" 

Hannah's weapon reaches the ground first, then Anna's. Then, slowly, the rest of theirs. 

"That's better. Now, I'm walking out of here. And nobody'd better follow us!"

And then, they're gone. 

Anna barely suppresses a scream. 

* * *

 Dean reaches the bottom floor of the parking garage and shoves Cas out ahead of him. He lands hard on the floor with groan. 

"Dean," Cas tries again.

"Just shut up," says Dean, smashing a car window with Cas's glock. He picks up a shard of glass and shakes his head sadly before tossing it aside, "I don't have time for you."

"We have time, Dean," Cas corrects, "Nobody's coming. They wouldn't dare."

"Sure, they would," says Dean, feeling around the car for a spare key. Dean's taken Cas's spare firearm, so all Cas has to defend himself with are his fists. Even being as strong as he is, Cas doesn't want to risk that just yet. 

"Think about what you're doing," Cas says.

"I already have. I'm getting the fuck out of here. Away from this place. Away from this city. Away from  _you_." 

Dean swears when he can't find a key and moves onto the next car.

"Stay down!" He snaps at Cas's attempt to stand. Cas raises his hands placatingly. 

"Okay." 

Dean searches the next car.

"What do you want, Dean?"

"I just told you!"

"No. Really. What do you really want? Why did you ask to see me?"

Dean looks at him like he's crazy.

"You could've asked for anything, Dean. They would have given you anything. Why me?"

"Why do you think?" Dean snaps, clearly growing tired of the question. 

"I think it's because you've lost everyone who ever cared about you. I think you wanted to be close to someone who does."

Dean snorts, "Like you care about me." 

"I think you'd like to think that." 

"And do you?"

Dean finally turns to look at him. He bends down, grips Cas by his tie and pulls him to his feet. He shoves Cas against the wall and holds him there, Cas's shirt still bunched in one hand, gun pressed against Cas's chest in the other. 

"Do you give a damn about me, Castiel?"  

Cas swallows hard. 

"Do you?"

Cas nods.

"Liar!" Dean snaps, giving Cas a hard shove before pulling away. "You don't care about me. You don't care about anyone and nobody cares about you."

Castiel shrinks a little under the force of Dean's anger. 

"This is a selfish world, Castiel. Everyone is only out for themselves. I'm just more honest about it."

"You're wrong." 

Dean shakes his head, "All these years and still so naive." 

"It's not naivete, Dean. It's called faith." 

"People do what's best for them. Like that boss of yours...Anna? Or your partner? You really think between catching someone like me and saving someone good, she'd give me up"

"I know she would."

The other man tilts his head doubtfully, "I hope you're right." 

Dean steps in, pinning Cas back against the wall. And suddenly he's kissing him, hot and firm. It takes Cas a moment to process, but it's all the window Dean needs.

Cas gasps as he feels the blade slide between his ribs, skilled and swift. The pain shoots through him like a livewire. Lips brush up against his skin as Dean whispers something in his ear, but all Cas can hear is his own blood rushing through his veins. Suddenly, the support of Dean's blade and body pulls away and Castiel crumples to the floor.

Cas thinks something stops his head from cracking against the concrete, lowering him the last few inches, but the pain clouds over his vision, blocking out everything else. 

He clutches at his side, feeling the hot, sticky liquid quickly soak through the fabric of his shirt, staining the ground. He hears approaching footsteps and shouting. They sound very far away. 

He picks up the sound of Hannah's voice and the heavy click of metal. 

More shouting.

A single gunshot.

Then,

silence. 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

"As you can see, the knife entered your body between your bottom ribs, just here. Remarkably, it missed any organs and major arteries. Considering its location, that's amazing. You're a lucky man, Mister Novak."

Castiel doesn't feel very lucky. He rubs a hand across his bandaged ribs.

It's been two weeks since the stabbing. Two weeks since Dean Winchester escaped into the void once again. When Cas first woke in in the hospital, the first name on his lips was  _Dean? What happened to Dean?_

Hearing he'd escaped again was the worst. Worse than the pain in his side or in his head. Worse than knowing Dean had knifed him in the gut or concussed him by throwing him down the stairs. Dean's escape meant he'd failed. Failed his team, failed himself... and failed Dean. Failed to help him see. 

He knows it's a mistake, but he has to ask.

"How lucky?"

"Honestly, the odds of hitting that angle by chance are nearly zero. If it'd been off by just a few centimeters you'd probably be dead. Seems you've got an angel looking after you, friend." 

Castiel stares at the X-ray. His insides on display so starkly in glowing black and white. Showing so clearly, what and where the problem is. The way things are and how they should be. The exact opposite of the tangled mess he feels in his gut. In his heart.  

"Lucky," he murmurs. 

* * *

Castiel has been... different since they lost Dean. He's refused to say much beyond his official statement about what happened when he and Dean were alone in the parking garage. He'd provided only the minimal logistical details and never even mentioned what they discussed, if anything. And he's always a little fuzzy about how exactly Dean got the jump on him with the knife. Cas says he didn't see the blade until it was too late...but something about it doesn't add up in Anna's head. There's a piece missing. Something Cas doesn't want to share. 

She supposes, unethical as it might be, that, given everything he'd been put through, he has a right to that small modicum of privacy. But she also knows it will never cease to sit in her mind, just of reach, egging her on. The small lie between them she'll never uncover. But she's owes him that. After all, she was the one who allowed him into harm's way in the first place. 

The guilt she feels is not the type to go away easily, especially knowing what a lasting effect her mistake will have on her employee, her friend. Not to mention dropping the ball on one of the country's most notorious serial killers. Again.

She's lain a lot of blame on Castiel for his involvement in the Winchester disaster eight years ago, but the truth is everyone there had an incompetent hand in what happened. Including her. 

That shock had come out of nowhere.

The shock of what happened to Castiel this time...she should have seen that coming. They all should have. 

Anna knows she'll never be quite the same again either. But as for catching Dean Winchester, now they're more motivated than ever before. 

* * *

Dean sits at the edge of the open grave, staring down at the charred body beneath his feet.  

He feels...bad. No worse than usual, but killing his most recent monster hasn't brought the same blissful satisfaction it usually does. Dean's starting to think maybe nothing ever will again. He hasn't been able to get his mood above broodingly miserable since he escaped custody two weeks ago. And Dean has a pretty good idea why. 

It's been nagging at him, tormenting him, crawling through his brain like a scorpion, pinching and stinging at the most inopportune moments, demanding to be acknowledged, to be  _dealt_ with. Two weeks ago Dean flew higher than he'd ever flown and then sunk lower than he'd ever sunk. All in the span of just a few seconds. And it was all his fault. His fault for not keeping his fucking emotions in check, his fault for letting his heart lead his head, his fault for believing he deserved anything at all that Castiel Novak had to offer him, even if it was just for someone to look at him with something other than total disgust or fear in his eyes. Any chance for that, for any sort of connection was gone now, blown up by Dean's own stupidity and desperation.

If Dean felt hollow before, now he feels full to the brim with crap, with so many nasty feelings there's barely room for him function at all. To even think.   

Dean takes another swig from his flask, wincing only slightly at bitter taste. He's all but numb to it now. Numb to the world. 

There's only one thing, one person, that could make it better and Dean knows he'll never see him again if he lives a thousand years. Because he's  _never_ going back to Chicago and he's never sticking his neck out so far again. From now on, he's sticking to low-profile low-lifes, the scum of the streets, monsters no one will miss. The rich and high-to-do get a pass from the Grim Reaper now and forever. Lucky them. 

Dean stares down at the little card in his hand, the one he'd swiped from Cas's coat when he was slipping into unconsciousness. It's already worn and wrinkled from Dean pulling it in and out of his wallet so many times. But Dean will never throw it away. He stares at the number under the name, contemplating, brooding. Wishing he were less of a coward and could just do it already. Just to know his Angel is alive. To know he hadn't _killed_ him.  

Dean had been careful. So very, very careful not to cause any fatal or permanent damage. But there's a corner of his mind still nagging him. He'd been fucking up so often lately...what if he'd fucked up one last time? What if he'd actually  _hurt_ his Angel? What if...? Dean doesn't even want to consider the possibility that Castiel Novak might not be breathing. That he might be the reason for it. 

Dean squeezes his hand gently around the thin, embossed cardboard.

What if? 

* * *

When Castiel is finally released from the hospital, the first thing he does is to go back to the parking garage. Because he's just full of wonderful ideas like that lately. He stands there, left arm still pressed to his right side, recalling his last traumatic moments of consciousness. They were talking about caring, about selflessness and self-interest. Dean had called him naive for believing he had friends. For even believing such beasts existed in world.

Castiel feels a sharp tightness in chest that has nothing to do with the stab wound. How lonely it must be, how lost must Dean feel. All the time. And how angry. To believe no one in the world was capable of caring for you.

Cas knows he'd basically be flogged for expressing such sentiments aloud. Sympathy for the murderer is not very popular around the office, or anywhere really. But Castiel can't help it. Seeing Dean so hurt and angry two weeks ago, all Cas could think of was that terrified, lost little boy. The child without a mother, with a father who only encouraged the poisonous feelings that eventually consumed him, with a brother whose very existence had provided Dean with a purpose and a pleasure, only to be snuffed out and replaced by a vengeful, rage-like darkness, casting his entire worldview into the shadows. 

 _"Why me?"_ Cas kept asking,  _"Why me?"_

He thinks maybe he knows now.

Cas's phone rings. 

It takes him a few rings to answer, still slow moving after his injury. When he finally pulls his phone from his pocket, he doesn't recognize the number. 

"Novak." 

He hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end. 

"Hello?"

No answer.

"...Who is this?" 

Cas is about to hang up when he hears someone cough and clear their throat.

"Hello, Cassy," says the voice. 

Cas's heart drops into his stomach.

"Dean."

"The one, the only."

"How'd you get this number?"

"Seriously?" 

Cas shakes his head. It doesn't matter.

"What can I do for you?"

Dean huffs a small laugh on the other end, "Always so formal. Even with a murderer."

"I don't see any point in disrespect, Dean."

"No," says Dean, "You wouldn't." 

"Why did you call?"

There's a pause on the line.

"...To see if you'd answer, Cassy."

There's something in Dean's voice...like he's trying too hard to keep it level. 

"Are you alright, Dean?" He asks.

Dean sputters a laugh, "Am I alright? ...I'm not the one who just got stabbed, buddy."

"No. You're not." 

"You angry with me?" Dean teases. 

"You kissed me."

Another long pause.

"Yeah. I did."

"Why?" 

"You ask a lot of questions."

Cas persists, "Why, Dean?"

"I needed a distraction," Dean's tone is light. But there's that same something underneath. Something he doesn't want Castiel to pick up on.  

"There's a hundred things you could have done for a distraction, Dean. Why  _that_?"

"Felt like it," he says. 

Now it's Dean's turn to wait as Cas struggles to wrap his mind around what Dean is implying. 

"You... felt like kissing me?"

"You're not halfway bad at it, by the way. I imagine you're better under...different circumstances." 

Is Dean seriously critiquing his  _kiss_?

"I imagine you must be too," Cas bites back. 

"Well, I'd love to show you." 

There's another pause, from both parties this time. Are they actually  _flirting_? Cas finds himself flashing back to that cold night last year... 

* * * 

_"I'd like that."_

_"Would you, really?"_

_"...Yes."_

_The kid's lips brush against his ear and Cas can't suppress a shudder._

_"Show me."_

_* * *_

Cas recalls the more recent incident when Dean had whispered in his ear like that, at a time when he'd been too preoccupied to listen. 

"What did you say, Dean?"

"I said I'd love-"

"No. Before. What did you tell me after you... after the kiss?"

Dean falls silent and it's quiet for a long time. So, long Cas isn't positive Dean is even still there.

But he waits. 

Cas doesn't really expect a serious answer, so Dean surprises him-- and himself, probably--when he finally replies. 

When he speaks it's soft, halting. All bravado has fallen away.

"I said...," he lets out a breath, "I said 'I'm so sorry, Angel'." 

Cas can't answer. His throat's gone dry.

"Goodbye, Castiel."

The line goes dead.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! Cas and Dean will return in part II, "It's Dark Inside." Coming soon!


End file.
